


I've been looking for a fight

by cherryvanilla



Series: The Riot's Gone Away (s14 Codas) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Desperation, Devotion, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s14e12 Prophet and Loss, Established Relationship, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: And when he mumbles, “Why don’t you believe in us, too?” into his brother’s shoulder, face wet from tears, it’s hard to recall the last time he’s felt this young and scared, needing his big brother to come and make it all okay. Dean is warm in his arms and alive, so god damn alive, and Sam has no idea what he will do if he has to lose him for good this time.(This technically fits in with my other Season 14 codas(just be there 'til I knowandtrying to lose the world insidebut can also stand alone.)





	I've been looking for a fight

**Author's Note:**

> Like many, this ep gave me all the feelings. Hope you enjoy.

Sam doesn’t know exactly what it is that’s causing him to feel this way. The fact that his brother is on a suicide mission and Sam has to put him in a box and say the hardest goodbye to the person who “doesn’t like big goodbyes”? The fact that they had to listen to a mourning brother talk about how losing his twin was like losing part of himself;? The fact that Dean brought up when they were kids and actually feels as though he failed someway? As though it was ever his responsibility to play peacemaker in the first place. As if Sam ever truly begrudged him for that -- even at the height of his teenage angst -- when he knew how much his brother did for him. Or maybe it’s just a combination of all of these things that has Sam feeling younger than he has in years - like he’s still that kid who tried to walk like his brother, talk like him, be everything Dean embodied because Dean was the greatest person on earth.

It’s been forever since Dean was taller than he was, yet Sam feels now like he did back then. Except instead of looking up at his brother with big eyes full of wonder and admiration, he finds himself looking desperate and lost, and longing so desperately to cling to Dean and never let go. 

Their first night on the road -- with that damn box being towed by the Impala -- they’d made out in their motel room. It was a long, slow, hot session, with way too much feeling than usual; cloying and all-consuming. That seemed to be the norm as of late. Everything had been more frayed and fragile since he got Dean back from Michael -- both times. They’d rutted against each other in the silhouetted shadows of the room, not even taking off their boxers. Maybe that had done it first, set Sam down this whole path of arrested development. Sam had felt like a teenager in Dean’s arms -- living out the fantasy he never got to experience back then. 

(Even if his brother had wanted him when they were teenagers, Dean never would've allowed himself such an indiscretion. His brother’s sense of honor and duty was one of the things Sam both loved and hated about Dean, with a fire of a thousand suns.)

They had come in their underwear, gasping quietly into each other’s mouths. Sam had bitten his lip nearly bloody to keep from begging Dean not to leave him. Dean pushed out of his embrace before long, silently putting on his sleep clothes and climbing into the other bed. Sam knew better than to follow, that Dean would either push him away or merely lay on his side the whole time, facing the wall. Sam could afford Dean that bit of distance, despite how much it cost himself. 

He wasn’t surprised to find Dean awake when’d exited the bathroom after a long, drawn out shower. Sam thought he’d vaguely heard Dean calling his name, but told himself it was his own demons breaking through. 

Dean didn’t really want to talk about anything, another thing that hadn’t surprised Sam. When Dean had exited the bathroom himself ten minutes later, Sam had pretended to sleep. He could feel Dean standing over him, observing quietly, silently cataloging. Sam had held his breath, hoping Dean would drop down beside him and let himself be comforted and held. Let them each have these last few moments together before no other moments would follow. 

But he didn’t, and the sheets of his bed were cold by the time Sam rose in the morning.  
___________________________

When it all becomes too much, when Sam can’t hold everything inside anymore, it isn’t some calculated move. Standing there -- angry and isolated up against his brother’s car, maudlinly drinking --Sam doesn't rehearse a speech or plan his words carefully, knowing just where to hit Dean. It turns out he doesn’t need tricks like that when it comes to his brother. It turns out all he has to do is bear his soul, saying everything that’s been building up inside him as soon as he realized Dean had been planning on leaving him without saying a word.

When Dean turns the second would-be punch into a hug, Sam clings to him just like he’s been wanting to these past few nights. He’s got a death grip on his brother’s jacket and never wants to let him go. He feels all of thirteen again; like he’s seeing Dean stagger into the shitty apartment they were renting, their Dad trailing behind and yelling at Sam to grab the supply kit. He’d watched with wide eyes while his Dad patched up Dean’s huge gash on the side of his ribcage, and then launched himself at his brother, Dean’s voice low and rough, wincing as he said, “Hey now, watch the stitches, short stuff.” 

And when he mumbles, “Why don’t you believe in us, too?” into his brother’s shoulder, face wet from tears, it’s hard to recall the last time he’s felt this young and scared, needing his big brother to come and make it all okay. Dean is warm in his arms and alive, so god damn alive, and Sam has no idea what he will do if he has to lose him for good this time. 

It’s a shock to his system when Dean actually relents. Those three words: “Let’s go home,” flit through his brain and spark hope low in his gut. It’s undercut in the next moment by Dean telling him he needs to accept the inevitable if there’s no other way. He feels tears build more in his eyes when Dean’s voice cracks on the word “promise.” He sniffles hard, barely recognizing that Cas is now beside them (and resenting his presence for the briefest of moments when he does) before choking out his acceptance. 

Dean’s hand on his face seers his skin like a brand, and the gruff yet tender, “Don’t hit me again, okay?” is so _him_ , comforting and familiar.

The car ride home is a quiet affair. Sam is all too aware of Cas in the backseat and the inability to touch Dean the way he wants -- no, _needs_ \-- to right now. If they were alone, he’d place his hand on Dean’s thigh, just a firm pressure, solidifying that Dean is still here, that he isn’t going anywhere right now. Dean doesn’t speak, the music turned up loud, his favorite Seger tape in the deck. But he keeps shooting these little looks at Sam, checking in, and it warms his soul from the inside out. 

Sam’s still feeling raw, keyed up and wrung out all at once. He looks out the window, spreading his palms on his thighs and counting down until they’re back at the bunker. 

Jack is already in bed by the time when they get home, the bunker dark and quiet around them. Cas looks between the two of them and heads down the hall with a faint smile. Sam refuses to think about just how much Cas knows after all these years or has inferred. Although pretty oblivious about many things, something tells Sam this particular thing is not one of those.

They wait until Cas is safely behind closed doors before retiring to Dean’s room without discussion. Sam needs to be in his brother’s space tonight; they customarily do this in Sam’s room (“Because you’ve got the TV and some of us don’t just pass out after sex,” being Dean’s old quip.).

When the door is securely locked Sam latches onto his brother, gripping him just as tight as earlier and pulling in a long, deep breath. “I’m sorry for hitting you.” 

Dean chuckles, low. “I’ll live.” 

The words, voiced light and breezy, cut through Sam sharp like a knife. “Yeah,” he replies gravely. “You will. Imma make sure of that.” 

Dean sighs, palm flat against Sam’s back as he pulls him in even closer, one knee wedged between Sam’s legs. “Can we not right now, Sammy? I’m here. I’m with you.” 

“Yeah,” Sam breathes out. _Yeah, you are. And I’m keeping you_. “Okay.” Sam’s more than happy to comply, to be honest. The evening -- hell, the last few days -- has been emotionally draining and all Sam wants to do right now is to re-confirm that Dean is flesh and bone, feel him in his blood and on his skin. 

“Let me stay tonight,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s shoulder, once again feeling like a child; small and innocent, yet asking for something completely opposite. 

It’s not something they make a habit of as of late, what with a particularly precocious Jack and then the hunters being around. But it’s also been happening a little more often since Michael, either as a result of Dean’s vulnerability or Sam’s worry or both. 

Dean strokes his hand slowly down Sam’s back, placing a kiss against his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.” 

Sam blows out a breath, releasing some of the tension he’s been holding in his body for hours. Maybe days. Dean pulls back, cups Sam’s face as he did earlier. This time, without an audience, his touch lingers. “I’m right here,” Dean repeats like he’s acutely aware of every singular emotion Sam has gone through over the last few days. Like he can sense how small and young Sam has been feeling, needing his big brother with every fiber of his being. 

“Can you just…” Sam whispers, trailing off before lowering his head, cheeks flaming.

“What?” Dean whispers back, thumb sweeping along Sam’s jawline. 

Sam opens his mouth before closing it again. After a beat, he figures he’s got nothing to lose. “Make love to me?” He doesn’t look Dean in the eye when he says the words, biting at the inside of his lip and staring down at his feet. 

Sam is absolutely expecting Dean to chuckle, mock him, roll his eyes. They’ve had their share of emotional sex, and Dean is just as much of a participant in those moments as Sam, but they don’t — talk about it. They don’t call those long, drawn-out nights in which they spend hours mapping one another’s bodies, for what it is. Not out loud, anyway. 

Sam needs to tonight. Has to let Dean know, with words this time, exactly what he hopes will happen, exactly what he requires from his brother (as long as if he’s willing to give it). A soft tilt of his head upward by Dean’s fingers has him unable to hide any longer. But Dean’s face isn’t mocking. Dean still looks shattered open and on the edge of too much vulnerability. He allows Sam to see everything: his fear, his want, his desire to give Sam anything and everything and claim the same for himself. 

“Christ, c’mere,” Dean chokes out. Then they’re kissing, desperate and messy yet slow and deep all at once. Dean licks his way into Sam’s mouth and Sam groans loudly, tangling his tongue with Dean’s and surging forward to let Dean feel all of him. Dean gasps, grinding against Sam’s length before pulling back to kiss his way along Sam’s jaw and down his neck. They shed their jackets slowly and make their way toward the bed. Sam lets Dean press him into the memory foam, sighing as the mattress contours to his Sam instead of Dean’s. Sam feels at home here in Dean’s space. In this room that they share only in the darkness of the night, away from prying eyes. Dean’s kissing him thoroughly, but not as if the world is ending. This doesn’t feel like the other night in the motel, fraught and harried. This feels like Dean wants to keep on loving Sam, and that it’s the only thing he wants to do until the end of his days. Sam chuckles against Dean’s lips when he realizes he just inadvertently made an REO Speedwagon reference in his own internal monologue. Dean would love that. 

“What’s so funny?” Dean mumbles against his lips, equal parts offended and indifferent. 

Sam smiles. “Tell you later,” he replies, then surges upward and kisses Dean as deep as before. They make out for what feels like an eternity and Sam has no complaints. He wants to do this for hours, days, years. This right here, right now, is everything he needs. 

Tomorrow they’ll have to start anew; they’ll fight for a way out of this, for salvation and peace. But inside these walls, inside this room, they’re carving out their own bit of salvation. And they’re doing so in every single touch and gasp and kiss and moan. 

Sam barely remembers Dean undressing him. Can barely recall Dean getting naked himself. All he knows is Dean is enveloping his body, making him feel safe and loved and protected. Sam forgets to be quiet, crying out his pleasure in loud gasps and desperate pleas when Dean slides down to suck his cock, drawing it out long and slow. 

By the time Dean has slicked himself up, two fingers still working in and out of Sam’s ass, Sam is so far gone he can barely speak. He’s slurring out some words that might be “please” and “yes” and “brother” and “love.” Dean shushes him gently, attempting to quiet his desperation, his eyes never leaving Sam's face. He’s present the entire time, not checked out; not in a box or in a cage. He’s here, he’s right here. 

Sam wraps his fingers around Dean’s, holds on tight as Dean pushes in deep before pulling back slowly. 

“Sam. Sammy. God, baby.”

Sam whimpers and mouths at Dean’s neck, his throat, his shoulder. They rock together, barely moving. Dean fucks in deep and tight. He doesn't pull out, just stays close and circles his hips, hitting Sam’s prostate on every swivel of hips. 

When they come, it’s together. In sync like so many other things in their lives. Sam blinks back tears as his orgasm is punched out of him, feeling worshiped, cherished. Dean sucks in hard, rough breaths against Sam’s neck, trembling through his own orgasm. Sam considers the wetness dripping off Dean’s face might be something other than sweat. 

The thought makes him hold Dean tighter as he lets out a shuddering breath. Dean stays inside and Sam doesn’t let him go, legs wrapped tightly around him until it’s too uncomfortable not to move. When they do, they don’t go far. Dean merely falls to the side and Sam rolls right into him. 

“Thank you,” Sam whispers into his shoulder. He conveys it in every possible way. Thank you for tonight, thank you for staying. Thank you for raising me, thank you for thinking you had to do more by me, even though it’s the last thing in the world that is true. 

“Anytime, little brother,” Dean whispers back, voice rough. His fingers stroke softly through Sam’s hair and Sam is sure Dean knows exactly what that thank you encapsulated. “Anytime.”

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like a soundtrack with your wincest, feel free to check out some of my 8tracks mixes [here](https://8tracks.com/sometimesalways).


End file.
